The raccoon looks awfully comfy — did she just yawn? — stretched out in the hollow of a tree roughly 10 feet above a redwood deck in a shady backyard in Staten Island. And, judging from the wood shavings scattered below, she has decided to hollow out additional living space, maybe an extra bedroom or a man cave for her mate or — heaven forbid! — a nursery.

Frank Spiecker of Harbor Wildlife Control already has spent 24 hours trying to lure her down with his secret-formula bait (don’t ask for the recipe, he ain’t tellin’) and two strategically placed traps. But that failed.

Spiecker was summoned from his Laurence Harbor office by a homeowner who had been sipping wine on his deck after a hard day of work when (insert freaking-out, cursing and screaming here) the raccoon leaped onto a table and went nose-to-nose.

He props a ladder against the house, climbs up and snaps an overhead photo of the chillaxin’ critter to include with the bill. ("Customers like to see what they paid for," he says.) The raccoon might as well have smirked and winked at him as it sipped a piña colada in a recliner, because Spiecker is now ticked off that the capture is taking this long.

"You’re coming down," he says. "Now."

Within a minute, Spiecker, perched on a ladder, has a snare looped tightly around the raccoon’s neck. But this isn’t going to be an easy eviction. She curls into a ball, digs her claws into the tree and hisses with hatred. Spiecker yanks hard on the pole, takes her to the deck and shoves her into a cage, all in a blink.

If this were an Olympic wrestling match, you’d need to watch the slow-motion replay to digest the entire takedown. Because, you see, the naked eye missed the part when the raccoon, uh, emptied her bladder. On Spiecker. Who is now hosing himself off.

"Glamorous job, huh?" he says with a chuckle. "Rule No. 1: When you have them in a snare, raccoons will pee themselves almost every time."

Business is booming for Spiecker these days. Foxes. Groundhogs. Squirrels. Raccoons. Birds. Snakes. Coyotes. Rats, bats and feral cats. They’re burrowing under sheds or platform decks, nestling in chimneys, breaking into attics or basements, or treating Dumpsters and garbage cans like all-you-can-eat buffets.

"Animals look at your house like it’s a tree," says John Griffin, director of wildlife services for the Humane Society of the United States. "If there’s a way in, they’ll find it. We hear people say all the time, ‘The animals are targeting me,’ but they’re not. They don’t care whose house it is.

"And when it comes to urban environments, they’re adapting very well. They’re very resourceful in finding food and shelter that people unwittingly provide."

The National Wildlife Federation estimates the nation’s largest 35 metro areas could lose another 22,000 square miles of green space by 2025. In other words, thanks to New Jersey (and New York) sprawl, man and creature are crossing paths more often than ever.

And when that happens, Spiecker’s phone rings. And rings. And rings. He’s one of a handful of wildlife control agents who handle the jobs that county and municipal governments won’t.

KEEPING THEM OUT

He doesn’t just catch the animals. Also a carpenter, he repairs the damage they’ve done to homes, then guarantees against the critters’ return: "I get ’em out and keep ’em out," he says.

Animal Control Guy Specializes In Removing Unwanted CrittersFrank Spiecker's business card reads "Solving Human & Wildlife Conflicts." What it really means is: If you've got an unwanted critter in your home or business (raccoon, bat, rat, fox or skunk, to name a few), Harbor Wildlife Control is the place to call. Spiecker retrieves two trapped foxes, releases a skunk and ground hog into the wild, and talks about everyday challenges of the job. Video by Mike Roy / The Star-Ledger

Most towns have animal control officers, but the level of service varies by town. It’s a sign of the financial strain many are under.

"In these recent times, when you have limited dollars and limited personnel, it’s one of the services that very well may not be tended to," says Bill Dressel, who heads the New Jersey State League of Municipalities. "Public officials are sensitive to the needs of their constitutions and their citizens, and they will do what they can, but these are dire fiscal times we live in."

That’s good news for Spiecker.

Before tangling with the raccoon, he trapped two pup foxes from beneath a shed in Monmouth County; set up specially designed squirrel traps on the roofs of two Central Jersey homes; wrapped things up at a New Brunswick address, where he had trapped four groundhogs trying to mess up a homeowner’s freshly landscaped backyard; explained to a Bergen County woman by phone how to get an angry cat into a carrier (no charge); directed a Sussex County caller, who had a snake in her home, to a wildlife control agent in her neck of the woods; and, at a businessman’s request, cased a strip mall with a feral cat problem.

All that, and it was barely past noon.

"I’m usually busier than this," he says.

Spiecker has seen his share of crazy.

He recalls when one family spent a small fortune on landscaping, including a freshly sodded lawn. They awoke one morning to find the sod rolled up. Figuring it was a prank, they laid it back down. The next morning, it had been rolled up again. Eventually, Spiecker caught the culprits: raccoons who were after the grubs in the dirt, beneath the sod.

THE BIG SQUEEZE

And there was the python probably released by a pet owner who either went broke trying to feed it or became frightened when it grew to roughly 12 feet. Spiecker caught it in a backyard, but the massive snake tried to squeeze the life out of him. Wrapped tight, Spiecker breathlessly called to his father, who had come along only because the job was on the way to the gun range.

"Help me get it off!" Spiecker yelled.

"No way," his father said. "I don’t get paid for this, you do!"

Spiecker caught an alligator, too, in 2004, but lost a chunk of flesh. Some knucklehead had turned his basement into a gator lair, with sand and a kiddie pool. But when he had a beef with family members, they got even by reporting him (and his fast-growing illegal pet) to authorities. They called Spiecker.

View full sizeJerry McCrea/The Star-LedgerA fox cub caught in a trap by Frank Spiecker of Laurence Harbor, owner of Harbor Wildlife Control, while working near his home in Laurence Harbor. (JERRY MCCREA/THE STAR-LEDGER)

"Probably because nobody else would be crazy enough to mess with it," Spiecker says.

The wild animals Spiecker catches are euthanized or relocated, depending on the laws governing the area and the animals, Spiecker says. He insists he does "everything by the book," and then holds up the book of regulations, which he keeps in his truck. In New York, nuisance wildlife control agents must be licensed. In New Jersey, no license is needed.

Spiecker began trapping in and around Laurence Harbor when he was knee-high to a gopher — even sneaking out of Cedar Ridge High School in the 1970s to trap during lunch hour with his buddies. They hung the animals in their lockers, then smuggled them home on the bus, he says. Raccoon pelts went for $40; muskrats for about $18, he says.

He recently was elected president of the New Jersey chapter of the National Wildlife Control Operators Association, and if there’s one thing he’s learned about varmints, it’s this: No home is immune.

On the way to the next job, Spiecker stops for coffee and fields a call. A groundhog has invaded a Central Jersey yard. Spiecker gives the caller a price: $130 to set up, $110 for every animal caught in the trap — until the groundhog is captured. (Sometimes the targeted animal is not the first one caught.)

The woman mistakenly believes Spiecker works for the municipality.

"What, this isn’t a free service?" she says.

"No," he answers.

"Well, I ain’t payin’ for you to get rid of no groundhog."

"Okay, ma’am," Spiecker says. "Thanks for calling. You have a nice day."